


Collision

by sephyelysian



Category: Kamen Rider - All Media Types, Kamen Rider Decade, Kamen Rider Ghost, Kamen Rider Kiva, Tokusatsu
Genre: Gen, Post-Decade Kurenai Wataru, Slight spoilers for Ghost mid-season, Some Swearing, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 19:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephyelysian/pseuds/sephyelysian
Summary: “ Yes! Fine! I was wrong.  I’m so sorry I didn’t fall into the mystery of the batty box like all the other kids!”





	Collision

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first three or four scenes of this story over a year ago and then it sat untouched until three days ago when I suddenly knew how to start it again. It did take on a life of its own and grew far past the short scenes I envisioned. 
> 
> This takes place post episode 28 of Ghost and after the endings for Kiva and Decade.
> 
> My other note of interest is that given the back and forth Ghost does on how corporeal Takeru is versus not once they get to a certain point, I just decided to go with the explanation of he’s as corporeal as he thinks he is in any given moment. 
> 
> As always, thank you to Amet for beta-ing and being my sounding board. And for not letting me skimp in places I might have in my writing blitz.

_“Every instant is a new universe.”_  
\- Joan Tollifson

It's spring cleaning day at the temple when Takeru finds the box.

They find it in one of the auxiliary storage rooms, hiding on a rickety iron shelf that's seen better days. The entire room is a dust cloth museum, Onari-san getting them all off track with stories of hidden treasures, recounting in lurid detail some of the relics that have passed through or been housed in the temple walls. Akari-chan is quick to counter a few of them, reminding him that Yata no Kagami is "reportedly" housed at Ise Shrine and has been since the 11th century. 

Onari-san waves his fan in her face, expression smug and somehow pitying at the same time. "There _is_ so much that you don't understand, Akari-chan. Your adherence to so-called facts blinds you to the truth. "

"What am I blinded to? That you're a ridiculous _fool_?"

"This again," Makoto-niichan grumbles with a quick roll of his eyes, Takeru shrugging as he watches the pair shove their foreheads together.

It's metaphorical lightening that sparks around them, not the real thing, no matter how much Onari-san might wish to prove his point. He's long since learned it's not worth it to get between them unless the squabble takes a more violent turn. He's far more interested in actually cataloguing the room. 

He has vague impressions of it, of toddling in behind his father's purposeful stride, 'Tousan always intent on a goal and never to browse, slapping at his tiny hands or taking one in his whenever Takeru strayed. The temple _was_ full of many treasures though they often weren't the fabulous supernatural ones Onari-san was obsessed with. For Takeru, the most interesting finds were the ones that belonged to his father. 

That sharp ache of loss has never totally receded but he can smile about it when he finds an old crate full of clothes that were clearly temple finery owned by 'Tousan. The faded scent of his cologne lingers there, Takeru running reverent fingers over ornamental brocade, neatly and perfectly wrapped into squares. In other boxes, there are elusive traces of his 'Kaasan -- a preserved chrysanthemum in a novel his father would never have read, a faded ribbon, and a string of pearls. They're scattered throughout (though the pearls have a home in a small jewelers box with some of his father's prized books (American mystery stories and he remembers sitting at 'Tousan's knee, watching in fascination as he turned the pages of some book with a dripping knife or noose or other garish depiction of violence, as absorbed there as he was in his arcane work).

Makoto-niichan lingers over that box as well, pausing to peer up at Takeru, his smile unguarded for once, misty with memory and nostalgia. Makoto-niichan had tried to steal one of these books once, just to get a good look at its contents and had been given a few swats across his backside for his troubles. 'Tousan didn't actually mind them sifting through things but he drew the line at thievery. 

"You should look through them," Takeru urges him, sitting back on his haunches.

The look he's given is doubtful and it's probably fanciful to wonder if 'Tousan's edict is still burned so strongly in his mind. Makoto-niichan's lean face is pensive, wide eyes distant.

"Maybe," the other boy says with all the finality of a no. 

Takeru lets it slide, catching Akari-chan's eye from where she's put her back to Onari-san, arms crossed. For all that she looks distracted, she's not and winking at him over Makoto-niichan's head.

They have him back again, Makoto-niichan and Kanon but sometimes Takeru can feel all the years and the weight of different experiences expand between them, a distance that often feels impossible to span. Except -- sometimes Makoto-niichan will give him a look that lingers too long or his hand will find Takeru's shoulder the way it used to when they were children. On good days it lacks the skittishness that makes Takeru worry so much about what's truly befallen his friends in that other place they disappeared to.

Sometimes that hand pulls a little too hard at his shoulder and when Takeru turns to look, there's something akin to panic there before it's irrevocably and forcefully shut down. That expression is hard enough to take when he faces it in Akari-chan's stubborn refusal to get off her computer in the lab or Onari-san's desperate beating around town with Shibuya-kun and Narita-kun in tow, trying to dredge up leads about how better to connect the Eyecons. 

Takeru has 59 days left. Again. He's trying to push through that and not be a burden to his friends. He can almost make himself forget until those moments he's confronted with the irrevocable march of time in the eyes of his friends.

He's actually surprised that Akari-chan isn't decrying this as waste of time but perhaps after what happened in the world of Gamma, she too, thinks they need a break. A breath of normalcy. Cleaning the temple is tedious but it's immediate and yields more tangible results than their esoteric ghost huntings. 

Rising out of his crouch, he turns around, flicks off another dust cover, only vaguely disappointed to find a stack of old newspapers, yellowed and throwing up motes. He wonders briefly at their significance before checking the date and seeing that they're from before even 'Tousan's childhood. Leftovers then from the priest before him? Perhaps. Sentimentality or forgetfulness had probably saved them.

"Ugh," Akari-chan grimaces, leaning over next to him to inspect. "Recycle. This afternoon. We're not stopping to look at them. Otherwise someone's going to decide they're mystical newspapers and then I _will_ have to kill him."

He sputters, laughing behind his hand and turning quickly away when Onari-san's pinched face rises from whatever he's looking at to narrow his eyes at them.

Takeru turns on his heel, twirling through a couple of rising stacks, poking at a few darkened jugs of -- something. Preserves? (He really hopes they're preserves and not the gross things they look like.) Takes another turn when the stacks narrow here, someone clearly having pushed them closer together in some past spring cleaning to make room for more boxes. It smells of must and mothballs the further back he goes and he's just about to edge away from the rusted metal shelving edges when he trips. Trips and flails, catching around the dirty edges of the shelving and trying to steady himself. Tries not to pull it down on himself when it teeters, something heavy and small crashing down hard on his head.

"Takeru?" Akari-chan calls.

"Takeru-dono!" Onari's voice is sharp and then there's another surprised exclamation that sounds all too much like someone else tripped.

A surprised exclamation and a higher pitched squeal of outrage,"Get off me, you lecherous --"

"Lecherous?! How dare you --"

It's Makoto-niichan that finds him, a silent speedy shadow that materializes next to where he's seated on the floor, rubbing his head and wincing. Takeru takes the hand that thrusts into his face, already nodding with a pained smile. 

"I'm okay. Just clumsy," his voice turns sheepish. “And a little too corporeal. Remember the good old days when I had no control over that? Now I can’t turn it off.”

He warms though under Makoto-niichan's searching gaze, the long elegant fingers that smooth over where he's rubbing his head, feeling around gingerly before deciding he must be all right. The other boy's lean, watchful expression eases and in the old days this would lead to teasing or to some off-hand comment about how Takeru is going to kill himself not looking where he's going.

It doesn't come because. Well. _Because._ They both know why and it's not worth dwelling on.

Instead, his hand reaches out to find the thing that clocked him. It's a small box, small but incredibly heavy, the wood stained black with an ornate bat-like carving on the top. The bat is the only bit of color in the whole overdone affair, brilliant gold and green in the center of its forehead, the eyes closed and the mouth slightly open in a feral smile. There's a tarnished lock hanging low. 

"That's -- odd," Takeru says, at a loss.

"Kind of ghoulish if you ask me," Makoto-niichan grunts, taking it from him and turning it around, sounding surprised, "Heavy. Wonder what it is?"

"Don't know. Maybe Onari-san might."

The monk comes charging through the stacks as if his name had summoned him and Makoto-niichan actually yelps, box in one hand and yanking Takeru forward with the other as the whole shelving structure teeters ominously. 

They somehow manage to avoid playing dominos with all the shelving in the room -- but only just.

\--

"You nearly killed him /again/," Akari-chan rages.

Takeru coughs, eyeshifting at Makoto-niichan, "Ah, I don't think that's possible --"

"I was trying to save Takeru-dono," Onari-san protests hotly, waving his arms around, "The shelving in that room is clearly cursed. We should perform an exorcism and remove it immediately!"

"Well, I agree with the removing it part," Makoto-niichan drawls, smiling warmly at his sister as she comes forward with an ice pack.

Takeru accepts it gratefully before turning to contemplate the box again. Somehow it's more garish under the light, the wood lacquered black though some of the shine has dulled with time. The bat symbol glints when he runs the edge of his hoodie over it. 

"I wonder what's in here," he muses.

It's enough apparently to stop the quarreling, Onari-san shoving his head forward, eyes alight. "Clearly it's a --

"--mystical treasure --" Akari-chan chimes in at the same time, in the same pitch before making a stern face. "Nonsense!"

"Spoken like the truly ignorant woman you are!" Onari-san hisses. "Anything in the temple --"

"But _what_ is it?"

They both stop, making faces at each other and then Akari-chan crosses her arms and glowers at the ceiling for a long moment. The silence builds and then she explodes, arms waving outward at the monk. "Well?!"

"Well, what? It is true I do know much about the treasures of the temple but," Onari-san's voice drops, hards coming together under his robe, "Some things are a mystery. But fear not. I'm sure there is some purpose behind our finding it and that will be known to us with time."

"We don't have time for the mystery of the Halloween box!" Akari-chan snaps. "It's just one more distraction when we need to be focused!"

"Perhaps 'Tousan left some note about it?" Takeru asks.

"An excellent idea. I can have Shibuya-san and Narita-san begin going over the official records from his time. I'm sure your hunch will bear fruit, Takeru-dono!"

"It's not really a hunch," Takeru protests.

A familiar hand finds his shoulder and squeezes, Makoto-niichan shaking his head. "Not. Worth it."

His friend's hands find his skinny hips, dark head tilting. "I'm more interested in seeing what might be inside a box like that."

There's a question that's not being asked, one that Takeru can hear from all their time as children getting into scrapes together. _Shall we take a look?_

He beams, snatching the box off the table before Onari-san has the opportunity to protest, bolting for the kitchen. Makoto-niichan is on his heels, skillfully blocking the doorway when Takeru beelines for the open toolbox, finding the bolt cutters first.

It's definitely overkill; the lock isn't much of one. The metal twists and then hits the ground before pinging off into a darkened corner. 

"Takeru-dono, please be careful. It might be possessed. It might be cursed. It might be --"

"--a piece of glass?"

Onari-san stops shouting, Makoto-niichan throwing a questioning stare over his shoulder from where he's bodily wedged himself in the kitchen doorframe. Takeru can feel his brow pinching, tipping the box carefully to reveal pale silver lining and a large, jagged sliver of stain-glass.

Makoto-niichan eases, catching Onari-san automatically when the monk falls forward, Akari-chan trying to edge around him.

"That's underwhelming," Makoto-niichan frowns.

"Maybe it's an old love momento someone forgot about? It's pretty," Akari-chan taps her chin and then full body shrugs. "For glass."

She pauses and then sticks a finger in Onari-san's face. "If you say one word about curses, I'll kick you."

\--

Takeru is still mulling over the box long after everyone else has moved on. Akari-chan disappears with Makoto-niichan into the basement, intent on interrogating him more about his experiences in the Gamma world. Onari-san is lecturing Shibuya-san and Narita-san about something in the garden. He probably should be listening but it's easier to drift away, to stroll into the antechamber where the Buddha is sitting and drop to his knees. The open box rests in front of him like an offering, the glass almost black in the candlelight.

He's careful when he reaches in to pick it up, not so much because he fears curses but because it looks fragile. Has clearly snapped off of something larger and more intricate. Someone put it in this box for a reason, most likely to protect it. Makoto-niichan is right though; the find seems underwhelming for the ornate presentation. The gilded bat feels like it has some significance that he's missing. 

'Tousan would probably know and it's hard not to feel the loss anew in moments like these. His father had tried so hard to teach him things when he was younger and at the time, Takeru had brushed it aside. Told himself there would always be more time to learn, to start to pick up the mantle 'Tousan wore so gracefully. 

There was never more time though, always less and he feels that more keenly than ever now.

His mouth purses, turning the shard in his hand, holding it up to the light. There are three pieces -- yellow, red, and a much smaller green. His thumb moves, slides along the edge and then he winces, as pain, sharp and quick, stabs there. He can feel the blood welling before he sees it, streaking across the glass. That's just great. He's bleeding over a relic. It's not like there aren't tons of ghost stories like --

The glass goes icy cold to the touch, blood glistening before the surface of the material seems to /absorb/ it. Takeru can feel his brow furrow, swiping at the glass again without thought, smearing more blood. It films across the bright green, dirtying it before it disappears again. The shard seems brighter than before, Takeru turning it, feeling the hairs on his arms raise, all of Onari-san’s warnings about curses rising in the back of his mind. 

It’s true that the temple had always housed numerous esoteric relics, some of which were purported to have strange powers but Takeru had never seriously considered that there might actually be something cursed among them. Which now seems pretty silly considering his own current undead state. Or the fact that he carries around eye-cons of long dead ghosts, drawing incredible power from them. He transfers the glass to his other hand, holding it up to the candle light, a little unnerved by how solid the colors seem, light unable to penetrate. He can’t see through it either which is — a little weird. 

Akari-chan won’t like the distraction but maybe she should take a look at this. Just to rule out the possibility of some unlooked for problem arising, possibly blowing up in their faces. He replaces the glass in the box carefully, wiping his slow oozing thumb against his pants before closing the lid. 

Takeru shouts, scooting back when red eyes bore into his, glinting malevolently in the firelight. He hesitates, edging closer because hadn’t that bat emblem — _hadn’t the eyes been closed —?_

He gets close enough to lean over the box, lowering his face when that wide open mouth grins, fangs prominent as a dry voice says, “Boo!”

Takeru’s not ashamed to admit that he shrieks, rolling backward. He can hear footsteps thumping against the mats behind him, Onari-san already roaring as he charges into the room, swinging a broom wide. 

“Takeru-dono! I’m here, Takeru-dono!” Takeru flattens himself against the floor as the broom nearly slaps in him the face.

“Master!” Shibuya-san and Narita-san materialize, each getting a hand under his arm, dragging out of range before Shibuya-san blanches, “You’re bleeding!”

Onari-san does another spin before he throws himself down in a panicked puddle at Takeru’s feet. “Takeru-dono! Speak to me! What’s happened?!”

“The box — The bat on the box —“

He’s stammering, lurching upright when it causes Onari-san to spin around again, creeping closer when he shrieks. Shrieks and levels a finger.

“It’s gone! The bat symbol on the box! It’s gone!”

—

“Hmm,” Akari says, murmuring under breath in a way that wants to be non-committal.

It’s not entirely successful, her brow creasing as she looks under the microscope and then leans back to take her glasses off. Pinches the bridge of her nose, craning her head upward. 

“It is bigger,” she confirms, “Denser too, than regular glass. Which doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Of course it does! I told you! It’s cursed! Cursed glass! And Takeru-dono has been cut by it!,” Onari-san waves his arms around, robes flapping. “He’s probably cursed now, too!”

Takeru chuckles, shaking his head, “I’m not sure —“

“Don’t feed it,” Makoto-niichan advises, arms crossed over his chest. “If it’s not regular glass, then is it glass at all?”

“It is. The molecular structure is the same. Same particle pattern. It’s just — it looks like the crystals are growing instead of maintaining current stability and that shouldn’t be happening. Takeru, what happened again and make sure you don’t leave anything out, if you please?”

This is Akari-chan at her most formidable, heart-shaped features stern, biting the tip of her glasses’ leg. He has her full attention now and it’s enough to make him want to squirm, aware that anything might be an important detail so he has to be careful to remember everything as best as he can.

“I was in the antechamber. I meant to meditate but I started thinking about the box again and the glass in it. I thought it was strange. A locked box for something that insignificant seeming. I took the glass out for a better look and I cut myself. I cut myself and then it seemed to go — cold? And absorb the blood? It surprised me so I touched it again and got more blood on it which disappeared again. Um, I got a little creeped out so I thought I would bring it to you and then, uh, the bat ...”

He trails off, aware that the sour set of her face, the way her lips are pursing at him isn’t a good sign, particularly when she repeats, “The bat?”

“Which is not here!” Onari-san picks up the now plain box and waves it around in front of them, “Which is further proof of the _curse_! After talking to Takeru-dono and reinforcing the _curse_!”

Makoto-niichan spears him with a look, huffing, “He says it said _boo_. That’s not exactly the most frightening curse.”

“Maybe it was only halfway through whatever dire incantation it was weaving,” Onari-san rallies. 

“I don’t think it’s a curse,” Takeru says and then sheepishly scratches the side of his head when everyone peers at him, “I mean, maybe I did for a few seconds but it is pretty weird. Given everything ‘Tousan was researching, especially about the Gamma world, I think maybe we should try and look into it. Maybe ... maybe it can tell us more about that. Or maybe it’s something else. I don’t know. It’s just ...really weird.”

Makoto-niichan rocks on his heels, staring up at the ceiling. His jaw is clenched, the muscle jumping as he considers that. When he finally drops his chin, he and Akari-chan lock gazes, doing that silent conversation thing they sometimes do around him. Where it looks like they’re trying to figure out a plan and then back each other because they’re not sure he’s going to go along with it. Takeru tries not to bristle, reminds himself that it comes from a place of caring. 

“It is unsettling,” Akari-chan admits, the words grudging. “But scientifically explainable given time —“

“How is a missing, talking emblem explainable by science, woman?!” Onari-chan rages.

“He cut himself and then freaked himself out by thinking about all your stupid ghost stories! It caused him to possibly imagine something. Did any of you really search the antechamber? It’s possible the emblem wasn’t affixed very tightly to the box and it flew off somewhere in all the commotion. It’s probably lying underneath the votive.”

“Ha! A likely —“

“It’s more likely than talking emblems —“

Akari-chan and Onari-chan are pushing into each other’s space again, nose to nose, Takeru shaking his head and then glancing at Makoto-niichan. 

“What do you think?”

It puts a stop to some of the arguing, Onari-san and Akari-chan pausing to turn their heads. Makoto-niichan’s chin is nearly against his chest, making a slow pivot as he paces in consideration. 

“I think,” he draws out the words, hands finding his hips before he turns, “that unless this becomes something bigger, it needs to go on the back burner. We don’t really have time right now to go chasing after every supernatural rabbit trail that pops up. It’s wasting _your_ time, Takeru.”

It’s straightforward and carries that edge of harshness that sometimes creeps into Makoto-niichan’s voice whenever he thinks he saying something Takeru won’t like. Defensiveness, Akari-chan would argue, and maybe that’s so. 

“I don’t think it’s worth diverting resources to try and figure out right now. Have Shibuya and Narita make a search of the anteroom, let Akari-chan make a few more notes about it and then put it away. Unless you think it might be helpful in helping Takeru?”

Makoto-niichan trails off as Akari-chan shakes her head, mouth trembling before her shoulders straighten. Her hands are tight on Takeru’s shoulders when they settle, squeezing as she peers into his eyes. “I don’t think it has anything to with you and — even if I’m a little curious about the glass. It’s not important right. Takeru, it’s not more important.”

_Than your life._ She doesn’t say the words but Akari-chan doesn’t need to for him to hear them, guilt flaring in his chest because if he has his own fears, this is a terrible burden for his friends to carry. Especially Akari-chan who’s been working so hard to try and explore every avenue, every way she might be able to reverse this —

He nods again, giving her his brightest smile and squeezing her elbows. “Of course. You’re right. I probably am letting the temple ghost stories get to me.”

She stares at him, searching his face, aware that even as he smiles, it’s not entirely genuine. Akari-chan has always known those things. “I’ll do another couple of tests for tonight and then we’ll put it away for now. Maybe take another crack at it when all of this said and done. Okay?”

There doesn’t seem to be much else to do but nod for a third time, Takeru giving them all his very best smile. It should fill him with gratitude at how much they all care for him but the guilt of it sinks like a stone in his gut.

—

“Do you know anything about this?”

Otchan leans in, lined features curious as he tilts his head. He picks up the glass gingerly, turning it to and fro before carefully replacing it on its velvety cushion. Tilts the box lid down to examine it and Takeru tries not to hold his breath. Otchan had been very serious for once when Takeru asked him to take a look, listening intently to his story, fingers playing over his beard. 

If there was ever anyone who might know something about the esoteric then it was Otchan. 

The old man leans back, giving him a bemused look. “Someone threw a rock in a church window and hid the evidence of their crime? Was it you, Takeru? Were you a _bad boy_ once?

Takeru sighs. Otchan might be able to tell him something if Otchan ever took anything he said seriously.

—

He’s still thinking about things when Akari-chan finally kicks him out of the lab, having returned with her dinner. Intent on getting those tests she promised out of the way before she returns to her other work. Takeru joins Narita-san and Shibuya-san in their cursory search, trying not to hunch when they both turn to shrug at him, the three of them turning up nothing. 

Onari-san is pouring over the temple records, shooing him away when he offers to help. It leaves him with nothing to do except turn in, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, rubbing bandaged fingers together as he turns over the feeling of cold that seem to linger there. 

He does drop off, dreaming about shelves and boxes, shifting fitfully on his pallet. Lingering in dreams on the drawn faces of his friends, feeling truly like a ghost as he watches them move about their lives, working so desperately to overturn his death sentence —

A shrill scream splits the air, followed by another, Takeru already on his feet and bolting before his waking brain takes over, instinct guiding him towards that familiar voice.

_Akari-chan._

—

The screams end abruptly but Akari-chan is flattening herself against the counters behind her work table, pale and trembling. Onari-san is on Takeru’s heels, dragging his beloved broom, nearly plowing into him when Takeru stumbles to halt. Takes in the tableau in front of him and tries to have it make sense.

Akari-chan’s expensive microscope is overturned, next to the remains of the mysterious box. In pieces on the floor, joined by her papers and a few test tubes. There’s someone sitting on her work table, naked and glistening with glass panels set in his skin — red, yellow, and green. Turning to stare at them blankly with wide, black eyes, full lips parted as if to speak, shaggy auburn hair tendriling around round features. Not so much older than Takeru. Probably not human. 

The person, the boy, shifts, Akari-chan squealing for another reason as he faces her, a leg swinging off the side of the desk. Averting her eyes and then looking again as if she can’t quite help it (though Takeru notices her gaze immediately swings back up), red crawling up her neck in a rapid flush.

“Could you just — I — _Ta_keru, a little help here!” She barks, startling everyone in the room, the strange boy included.

—

“I don’t know what happened. One minute I was making notes on my computer and then I heard a crunch and it’s hello, naked boy! Naked. Glassy. Boy!”

Akari-chan’s arms wave wildly, a little too reminiscent of Onari-san in this moment, the boy in question shrinking underneath the blanket they’ve used to cover him. His pouty lips are downturned, eyes fearful as they dart around, a speckling of beauty marks underneath more visible as he turns his head. The glass has disappeared, absorbed into what looks like tan, healthy flesh (and Akari-chan had screamed anew about that), rewarded with more blank looks when they ask him about it. 

Takeru tries to give him an encouraging smile because glass or not, naked or not, the other boy seems more confused than anything else. He hadn’t tried to hurt them when he and Onari-san had all but corralled him, helping him down off the table and then sliding underneath one of those flailing arms when unsteady legs didn’t seem to want to support him.

Once he wasn’t quite so visibly naked, Akari-chan snapped back to life, dashing around for her medical supplies, shining a light in squinting eyes, checking for a pulse. Throwing out question after question that Takeru had finally had to try and get her to pause because all it did was doing was making their — uh, guest look hunted, almost teary. 

Takeru coughs, squatting down in front of the stranger, making sure his movements are slow and hands in plain sight. 

“Hello,” he says gently, “My name is Takeru. Tenkuji Takeru. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy’s lips part, drawn back and then they stop, leaving only a slowly exhaled breath and knit eyebrows. His gaze turns inward, Takeru exchanging glances with Akari-chan there. The slow motion bloom of renewed panic in their guest’s features is painful, flinching when Takeru tries to reach out. 

Dropping his hand, Takeru nods and keeps his tone even. “It’s fine. That’s fine. We’ll figure that out. I — you’re safe here.”

That earns him a dubious look, particularly when those dark eyes touch Akari-chan, hunching down further again. She opens her mouth, then stomps a foot, cheeks still pink. “You were naked. Naked! And you just— you just appeared! And made a mess of my lab!”

Her voice is rising again, not helped when Onari-san sidles over and tries to take her arm, shushing her. “Miss. Miss, you must remain calm. I understand such things are beyond you but your voice is unpleasant when it gets that high — Ow!”

Takeru doesn’t have to turn around to see that she’s elbowed Onari-san, the monk squawking in response. He chuckles, shaking his head, “They’re lively, aren’t they?”

It earns him twin drawn breaths but that might be worth it for the way the other boy’s mouth starts to curve upward for a few seconds before turning down again.

Shibuya-san is turning over the broken pieces of the box, studying it behind his thick glasses. He seems a little spooked though he’s quieter about it than either Akari-chan or Onari-san would be. Akari-chan pauses, catching sight of him, arms crossing over chest.

“Still think we need to ignore that?” Onari-san asks, a hint of cheek there. 

He’s lucky she’s not slapping him, Takeru thinks, watching her expression sour anew. “Yes! Fine! I was wrong. I’m so sorry I didn’t fall into the mystery of the batty box like all the other kids! But I still think curses? Are bunk!”

“That’s because you’ve never seen how truly terrifying they can be,” Onari-san says smugly.

She levels a finger at the stranger. “Does that look terrifying?”

“You screamed, didn’t you?”

“Be that as it may,” Takeru pitches his voice a little louder (and where is Makoto-niichan when he needs someone to stop their bickering), “This isn’t getting us anywhere and it’s making us look inhospitable.”

“Ah, Takeru-dono? A word?”

Onari-san gives him what he probably thinks is a shrewd look, jogging his head towards the door. Not going out of it because no one feels particularly good about leaving this stranger alone with Akari-chan but swinging them around so that his back is to the room, robes blocking out Takeru’s view.

His finger raises, pauses as he hesitates before squinting his eyes and leaning in closer, whispering, “Do we want to be hospitable, Takeru-dono?”

Onari-san is squinting, trying to flare his nose and look imposing but this close, Takeru can see the whites of his eyes, the faint overlay of disquiet that could turn into full blown fear. This might be validation for all of Onari-san’s superstitious proclamations but that knowledge is only consolation so far. The other half is genuine terror that yes, he was right and beyond that, will this get worse?

Takeru places a hand on his shoulder, voice gentle but firm. “Onari-san. My father never turned away from this place anyone in need.”

“That is so.”

“In fact, it was always his wish that the temple doors remain open and that our hearts be a mirror of that.”

“That is also so,” Onari-san’s chest puffs out in pride.

Takeru slaps a hand against his chest, grinning up at him. “Then you agree it would be against ‘Tousan’s wishes and teachings to turn him out.”

“Of course! _Wait —_“

“I’m glad we agree,” Takeru scoots underneath Onari’s arm, this time throwing himself at the other boy’s side. 

There’s a strange aura to the other boy, an almost pull. It doesn’t feel unfriendly but Takeru can feel something off about him. Something not quite normal. Which, he acknowledges ruefully, thinking of the glass shard and the box again, is pretty much a duh under the circumstances. And maybe perfectly normal for the temple.

“Maybe we should try this again. With clothing involved,” Akari-chan says, wiping her hands against his skirt. “He’s only a little taller than you are, Takeru. Maybe he can borrow something? At least until we get a few things straightened out?”

She glances down again, hand rising to fan her face absently as Takeru raises his eyebrows, snickering before he can catch himself. Akari-chan blanches, raising herself up to her full height and sweeping an arm towards the door, Takeru already scrambling. “Out! Get him something to wear right now before _you_ need medical attention, too.”

It’s not quite cracking her knuckles at him the way she used to before his first death but it’s close enough that he scoots, reaching without thinking to hook a hand around a skinny elbow under that blanket. There’s minimal resistance and maybe tone really did convey enough, even if the other boy seemed to be in shock.

She said out and out they went, nearly tripping over Onari-san in the process.

—

“Sorry if these aren’t to your liking,” Takeru’s voice is sheepish as he rummages through his closet, pulling out a couple of plain t-shirts, one white and the other black as well as some of his kimono-style jackets to lay in front of the boy crouched on the floor. “There’s probably not much else to wear though unless you want temple robes.”

He pauses and scratches his head. Pants are easier because they’re all a variation of black skinny jeans. Shoes might be problematic though. He only has one pair and they might not even be the right size even if he did loan them out.

“Um, you can take whatever you like. I don’t mind.”

Brushing off the front of his jeans, he sits down across from the other boy, folding his legs underneath him. Trying to radiate good intentions and not flinch when the other boy doesn’t react, eyes downcast and unfocused again. Still enough that it’s only the occasional blink or shallow rise of his chest that betrays any sign of life at all. Takeru tries not to worry about that, reminds himself that it likely _is_ shock. The shock of sudden corporealness, of existing. It’s not like he doesn’t know something about that himself.

_‘I wish you could talk to me,’_ Takeru thinks, _‘I wish you could tell me what happened to you.’_

If the other boy even knew himself. They would have to hope that ‘Tousan’s records would turn up some clue. Maybe he can take some of the records off Onari’s hands and go through them himself. Sometimes ‘Tousan wrote things down in code and he’s become so accustomed to deciphering some of his writing that —

There’s a twitch, Takeru catching his breath as fingers hesitate and then slowly drift over the hem of the black t-shirt and then the white one. Skimming light touches over the fabric before that lowered head angles towards the black one, palm flattening against it.

It probably doesn’t matter that Takeru lets go of a faint, relieved laugh and a nod. No one is looking at him right now. 

He does it anyway.

—

There’s a face staring back at him in the mirror. They — Takeru-san and Akari-san — tell him its his own but the territory there is so unfamiliar he’s not sure if he believes them. 

The lips are the most immediate feature, generous with a faint cleft. They change without thought, pursing. Curving downward. Parting so that they look fuller and then thinning out. Wide, round eyes with freckles underneath them. Three under his right eye in almost — almost a triangle (he’s finding the words for things come more easily when he’s not pushing). Straight nose that his fingers slip off of when they reach up to trace. Fingers that have rough patches at the tips — callouses. Flat, reddish hair that falls in his eyes, clings to round cheeks. Seeing that makes his lips twist unhappily though he can’t explain why. 

He can’t explain any of it. It’s like those words. The harder he tries to grasp them, the faster they fall out of his head. So he stops and he waits. Watches Takeru-san and Akari-san flutter around him, Takeru-san often speaking in careful, kind tones before Akari-san does ... Anything really. Before she sticks a piece of wood in his mouth and demands he opens wide. Before her fingers find his inner wrist, staring at her own wrist, at a dark band there before she murmurs a number and writes it down. Before she waves a wand over his face and cheek, waiting for it to beep before she declares his temperature is low but not so much as to be worrisome (and given the way she says it, he supposes he should feel pleased about that). 

He finds words when she grabs a swab and demands he open his mouth again, fingers moving as if she means to stick them inside. “No.”

She blinks at him, lowering the long stick with the white fluff on the end. “Did you just —“

“No.”

It’s a magical word. It causes Takeru-san to drop a hand on her shoulder and shake his head. It forces her to put that instrument and some of the others he doesn’t like on sight away. It’s an answer when her questions become less about his body and more about other things.

“Can you tell us your name?”

“No.”

“Do you know where you came from?”

“No.”

“I want to see that glass in your skin again. Can you make it happen?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

That one he has to think about and the answer ends up being the opposite of no when Takeru-san waves a bowl near him, the warm smell of food making his stomach hurt.

Eventually the questions stop (though he wonders if it has more to do with the sudden upswelling of tiredness that lead him to rub his eyes and yawn than a desire to stop for Akari-san) and he’s ushered into a — room. This one is like the one he was in before, the door sliding shut and leaving him alone in the dimness.

With a mirror for company (and it’s almost heartening that he can look at a thing and have the word simply appear the way it does). 

The mirror holds no real answers though. It can’t tell him his name or purpose. It simply provides a way to study the face there, searching for anything familiar. It doesn’t fill the widening void within him, the one that he can feel around the edges of, searching for landmarks and finding none at all. 

Light skims off that polished surface, a glint of gold that’s there and then gone when he blinks, turning his head. There’s nothing there except the shadowy fingers thrown by a tree outside, writhing in the split light.

“Wataru.”

It’s a word and he thinks he hears it, in gravelly tones that feel as if they boom in his ears, loud in the silence of the room. His lips move silently. _Wa-ta-ru_. 

There’s a rustling sound that makes his eyes search upward, standing and turning in a small pivot. He tries the word aloud himself and waits for a reply that doesn’t come.

—

Takeru-san lowers his chopsticks, his smile quick and excited. “Wataru? Is that your name?”

He nods, hands folded in his lap. The truth is he’s not sure it is but there’s a weight to the word that calls to him, that feels like it might be his. Pulling the word close to that throbbing sense of loss that seems to be nesting in his chest and claims it.

“It’s a good name,” Takeru-san assures him before picking up his chopsticks again and saying a blessing over their food.

—

“I’m going to be the unpopular one here,” Makoto says, crossing his arms over his chest and giving the rest of the room a flat stare, “but are you all out of your minds?”

It earns a flinch from the stranger (who is apparently named Wataru and everyone is very excited to find that out) but Takeru flashes him a bland smile and Akari-chan is puttering around, peering at a sample. He glances around at the others, not encouraged when Onari-san who might be his closest ally in this, is busily patting Wataru on the shoulder for being such a quick study with a broom. Makoto frowns, taking a step forward and slapping his hand against the edge of the table.

“No, really. You’re telling me that the piece of cursed glass we were all so worried about is now a person? A living, breathing person who doesn’t remember who he is? And that’s okay?”

“It’s not okay,” Akari-chan says without lifting her head, turning the dial on her microscope. “It just is.”

“You’re not concerned?”

“Of course we’re concerned,” Takeru says sounding wounded, “That’s why we’re trying to help him figure it out.”

“Also,” Akari-chan adds, “No matter what baldy says, there’s no such things as curses. Only phenomena we don’t understand yet.”

It’s on the tip of Makoto’s tongue to remind them that they had all been worried not more than a day ago about actual curses and esoteric relics and now something had happened that sounded like it was out of one of the ghost stories Takeru’s ‘Tousan used to tell. Had happened, was happening, and they were all taking it in stride. His eyes narrow, Wataru sensing that and attempting to smile before he falters, gaze dropping to his hands. Takeru sighs, patting the top of the other boy’s head and then getting up.

He knows his friend well enough to follow him out into the courtyard, stopping just out the door to watch Takeru spin around on the cobblestone. Not quite pacing the way he does when he’s truly worried but there’s a hint of restlessness there. 

“It’s weird,” Takeru admits finally, bleached hair going in every direction when he ruffles it, “but aside from suddenly growing out of that shard of glass and scandalizing Akari-chan, Wataru-kun hasn’t done anything. He couldn’t even find more than a handful of words for the first few hours. He only remembered his name this morning.”

“And you don’t find that concerning? I realize I’m the pessimistic one of us but what happens if he remembers that he’s really a kajin that wants to rip Akari-chan’s fingers off the next time she tries to take his temperature?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Takeru scoffs.

Makoto raises his eyebrow and stares at him. Waits until Takeru starts to fidget and squirm, fiddling with the ties of his jacket. 

“You _are_ a pessimist,” he finally accuses.

“That doesn’t make me wrong,” Makoto shakes his head, “We look out for each other, _right_?”

He doesn’t mean for the harsh way the words roll off his tongue, almost bitten off. Laced with guilt and fear because he hadn’t been looking out for Takeru, not until very recently and he needed to make up for that. To find a way to look after Takeru the way Takeru and his ‘Tousan had done for them growing up. It was Takeru’s sacrifice that had made Kanon flesh again and that was a debt that could never be repaid. 

Makoto was damned if he wouldn’t try.

“Of course we do,” Takeru protests, stepping in close, that pinched expression darkening the sunniness of his demeanor. “I just — I don’t have a bad feeling about this. Or about him. Maybe perplexed but I don’t think he means us any harm.”

“Sometimes things happen even when we don’t mean them,” Makoto says, mouth thinning out.

Reminded of his own mistakes, the desperate drive to save his sister and do it alone that had turned him against his childhood friend. He had done as he thought he had to and regretted it now but at the time, it felt like the only path open to him. 

It earns him a sigh, a look of wistful acknowledgment that’s cutting, “I know, Makoto-niichan. I know.”

—

Dinner feels less comfortable, Makoto-san staying, seating himself next to Takeru-san. It’s not so much anything he says as it is the way he stares, studying Wataru. Obvious enough that Takeru-san elbows him a time or three before sinking into outright pouting. Akari-san scolds them both but there’s a thoughtful look in her eyes when they touch upon Wataru. Some ease of earlier recedes and all those questions, spoken and not, flood the silence that rises, building until Wataru begs off on his food. Lies for the first time outright and says he’s not hungry anymore, uncertain if it’s a relief or worrying when Takeru-san actually lets him escape. 

It probably helps that there’s really not far for him to go. 

The temple gardens are somber in the moonlight, green leaves turned silver and shadowy under the moon. Wataru sits on the edge of the porch, fingers gripping wood that’s cooled, the sweet chimes of a furin strung near his room audible as the breeze picks up. It’s quieter at this end of the temple, away from the dining areas and the rooms Onari-san has set up for his paranormal investigations (and Wataru supposes that makes it easier to accept his presence). It will be hours before the others turn into their rooms (and for Akari-chan, not at all) and in this case, solitude feels more than welcome. 

He doesn’t always like being alone with his thoughts, when there are so many blank spaces, a painful sense of urgency that laps around the edge of them whenever he probes. It’s easier to sink, to let himself be pulled along in this place, taking each hour as if it were something longer. Letting the others drag him around because otherwise he isn’t sure what to do with himself, only that he knows something is missing. 

(Of course it is. The only thing that he feels like he owns is his name.)

Wataru draws his legs up, chin resting on his knees, watching a thin gray cloud claw its way across the moon, wondering briefly if this was something he had done before. If the moon, swollen and stark, had felt as comforting then as it does now. Like — like an old friend or the succor of a deep breath, working at some of the knots in his chest. 

He lifts a hand, fingers splayed so that the light bends around it. Lowers his lids until he can see only the faintest outline when he hears it again, the rustling flutter of wings. Feels a surprisingly heavy weight that settles on his index finger and the breath rattles out of his chest when his eyes pop open, the outline of bat balancing precariously there. 

“Don’t scream,” it orders him, eyes glowing red in the gloom.

—

It — His — name is Kivat. Kivat _Bat_, Wataru is informed as if what he is weren’t obvious. There’s something else that should go along with that name and he says as much when his heart stops racing. 

“Maybe,” the creature concedes, using the tip of his wing to scratch his head. “I can’t remember.”

He’s matter of fact when he says it, growly and gravelly, wings shivering when Wataru reaches out to pet the top of his head, both of them hesitating. 

“I can’t remember,” Kivat Bat says, “But I know you. You’re Wataru and you’re an idiot.”

“That’s a little rude.”

“Sometimes the truth is,” the bat lifts his wings in an approximation of a shrug, “But I’m pretty sure you need me. I’m not sure why I know that but I feel certain I’ll remember soon enough. In the meantime, I’m keeping an eye on you but if you tell anyone you’ve seen me, I’ll fly away and _never_ return.”

It’s said melodramatically, the last couple of words with undue sternness, the sort people use when they’re trying to scare someone. Wataru tilts his head, rubs the back of his neck and stares. Kivat stares back.

And then he heaves a huge sigh, rolling his eyes. “Look. Don’t tell anyone until I have time to figure out more. If that girl prods me the way she prods you, I’ll probably bite her. And she’ll scream. A lot.”

Wataru winces and then nods. 

—

It’s easy to fall quickly into the rhythms of life at the temple. He learns to sweep with Onari-san standing over him, noting his progress with approval. Cleaning involves gloves and an apron because he finds the idea of dirt and being dirty fills him with skin crawling dread. He bathes apparently more than most, wallowing in the temple ofuro before bed to the point where even Takeru-san makes an offhand comment.

Shibuya-san teaches — tries — to teach him to cook (though he manages to burn everything but the noodles). That might have been more disheartening if he hadn’t made a wonderful discovery during it all. 

Wataru pauses in front of the radio, grabbing Shibuya’s hand to still it before the other man can switch the station as the first raw strains of music spill out and take hold of him.

It’s a violin, they’ll explain later and the sound of it sinks in, unmakes and fills him like a madness. One that trails after him when the radio quiets, his fingers moving, tracing sawing patterns he doesn’t understand in the air. Leading him to hum, all that sound pouring in and leaking out of him, unable to contain it. That music sings and because of it, so does he, losing himself again when he prevails upon Akari-san to help him find more music. She’s monitoring him, making notes of his reactions and Wataru doesn’t even care.

It’s a small price to pay for the swelling sense of comfort, of self, that rises with each lilting trill.

Even Kivat remarks on it.

“You look crazy doing that,” he grouses from his perch high up in the rafters of Wataru’s room, watching as Wataru’s fingers move again.

“It makes me happy,” he says absently, reaching for the headphones that Takeru had borrowed from Akari-san.

He’s not quick with technology, Wataru has learned, but somehow he felt very motivated with this when Takeru-san explained that they had put a whole playlist of violin concertos on the tiny silver music player in his hands. 

Kivat makes that face at him, the one Wataru is starting to grow accustomed to, somewhere between exasperated and some warmer emotion. It might be fondness. Kivat would probably deny it.

—

Wataru notices the first time Takeru-san and Makoto-san disappear together, gone for hours while Akari-san frets. Onari-san reassures her before disappearing himself and she gives him a brittle smile before turning on the television.

There’s a news report on about a kaijin rampaging downtown, wavery images of people fleeing as cars explode around them. He finds himself straightening, attention fixed on the images, chest tight and heart racing with some unnamed desire. Not fear so much as — wanting to be there. Wanting to reach out and —

“Wataru-kun,” Akari-san says, trying to sound cheerful despite all her obvious unease. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”

How? He wants to ask. How will it be all right? How can it be when so many people are in the line of fire? When buildings are crumbling and monsters are rampaging? (When he’s not there?)

“Just wait,” she says, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume as the camera picks up on two new figures in armor, one in bright orange and the other deep blue. The light halos them as they stride forward with purpose, towards one of the kaijin and the familiarity is so painful he forgets to breathe. 

He learns a new phrase. _Kamen Rider._

—

“I want to help,” he says stubbornly, after the first time they drag Makoto-san in from a battle, bleeding and unconscious, an eye-con clutched between his fingers.

The explanations are terse, Takeru-san almost apologetic, scuffing the ground with his toe as Onari-san puts Makoto-san to bed, Akari-san wrapping his wounds. It’s that phrase again, _Kamen Rider._ Takeru-san is one and so is his friend. When they disappear, they’re fighting. Helping to save other people. 

“I can help,” Wataru insists but they shrug him off, Onari-san pausing to grandly say that since Wataru is in on the secret now, he could be most helpful in their paranormal investigations. 

He could join the _team_ and it’s said with a wink that agitates everyone more than it soothes.

_’I can help,’_ Wataru wants to say again, more than doing research, but he can’t think of why he believes that. Only that his heart settles on it with the same strength as it the violin.

—

He expects Kivat to be dismissive as he always is. Instead, he’s given a quizzical hrming noise before the bat wings down to him.

“Do you really think you can do something like that?” Kivat asks dubiously. 

His jaw clenches, nodding, flopping onto his back.

He’s gotten used to Kivat landing on him, crawling up the length of him. He’s not expecting it though when he lands on his hand. When he nudges with a wing until the palm splays upward. 

“We can give it a try,” Kivat says bemused, “If you survive this.”

And then he bites Wataru, hard and fast. Agonizing cold snakes through his veins, awareness constricting and then heightening. His feet dig and scrape against the floor, heart thumping hard and fast. His head rolls and there’s glass again, rising in his skin like a reckoning, a wave of nausea on its heels because he’s not ready. He’s not ready. He’s not —

“Don’t die,” Kivat instructs him.

—

It all comes crashing to a halt the next morning when he isn’t even awake yet. When he’s curled on his side, a dull throb where Kivat’s bite has all but disappeared, lost in the thrum of his heartbeat, a tune that sounds different now. As if something within him has shifted again and he’s dimly feeling out the new parameters. 

“Go away,” he mumbles when the first knock at the door happens.

—

“Takeru,” Akari-chan sticks her head around the wall of the anteroom, “There’s a stranger wandering in the garden.”

Her face is drawn, questioning when he looks up from his prayers. Not so much worried as ... Reserved. He slides to his feet, finding his house slippers because that sort of expression doesn’t feel like he has time for sneakers. 

Sometimes people show up here when they need help. And sometimes people show up here with trouble on their heels. He’s starting to dread the fact that he feels dismay that they show up at all.

This one person is a bit more of a surprise, dressed in an expensive suit with a deep red shirt. Lifting an old-fashioned pink camera to snap pictures. First of a small stone pagoda, angling it towards a butterfly that’s landed there. Then of Shibuya-san as he hurries out to try and greet the newcomer, waiting until he’s up close to snap off a picture in his face. The sudden flash causes Shibuya-san to blink, trying to clear his vision before the visitor saunters off to another corner of the yard. 

The flash hadn’t been there in the first shot or the ones after Shibuya’s; that spoke of intent and Takeru’s mouth flattens out.

“So this is the world of Ghost, is it?” The man says lazily, glancing over his shoulder at Takeru as he approaches.

Akari-chan makes a strangled noise, Takeru hesitating. There’s both nothing and everything threatening in this man’s posture. In the smug, overly confident way he carries himself. He ambles forward, snapping pictures of Takeru from several angles before he glances down to consider his camera. 

“I wonder what these will reveal,” he says and then looks up with a smile, hands going to his jacket pockets. “Kadoya Tsukasa.”

“I —Takeru. Tenkuji Takeru,” he manages because giving a name is a first step, a peace offering, isn’t it?

“Yes, I know that,” Kadoya-san says, sounding bored suddenly, “Kamen Rider Ghost.”

The man shifts, sways a little closer, rubbing his fingers over his thumb, watching Takeru. There’s an expectant air about him, as if he’s waiting for some sort of acknowledgment in turn. As if Takeru should know who he is or maybe even why he’s here and not be floundering because he’s just thrown out his secret identity like it’s no big deal at all. 

“I was sure you’d be older. Maybe a little —“ That hand waves, gestures over Takeru in airy dismissal. “Well, a little more. You know.”

Both hands come up and curve, lip curling as Kadoya-san mimes a frightening face. He shrugs and angles closer to Akari-chan, starting to lift his camera again.

“Take one picture and I’ll break it over your head,” she hisses through a tight smile, hands fisting at her hips.

Kadoya-san gives her a look bordering on grudging respect, making a great show of dropping his camera against his chest again. Instead he spins around, gesturing at the building behind him. “It’s a little large, isn’t it? For just you? Oh wait. That’s right. There are people coming in and out of here just now, aren’t there?”

“Kadoya-_san_,” Takeru begins as firmly as he can, the other man pausing and the sardonic smile directed at him feels more patronizing than friendly. “I don’t know who you are. Perhaps that would be a good starting point. We could start over. I’m Tenkuji Takeru. Welcome to my home. And you are...?

The look he’s given tells him that Kadoya-san thinks he’s being pointlessly pedantic, Takeru trying not to falter in the face of that. Aware that Akari-chan is quickly hitting her limit and that might almost be a relief because at least if she goes off, that’s familiar territory. Having to calm her down and keep her from attempting to deck Kadoya-san will give him time to think.

He can hear Onari-san though coming through the walkway behind them, voice pitching high and worried as he speaks, “...if you’re not feeling well, then perhaps we should speak to Akari-san. Ah! Akari-san! Akari-san!”

They all turn as Wataru-kun trudges out from behind one of the sliding doors, rubbing his eye and looking haggard as Onari-san dances around him. Akari-chan exchanges glances with him and then bounds up the short distance, giving Onari-san a quick shove out of the way. There’s two sets of protests then, one from Onari-san being pushed and the other from Wataru-kun who tries to lurch out of the way of the hand she shoves at his forehead, starting to pout at her.

Nodding to himself, he turns his attention back towards Kadoya-san, steeling himself to try again when Kadoya-san saunters past. Just past him to put a foot against the lower step, unbuttoning his coat as he angles forward, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. 

“Didn’t realize this world was in mortal peril,” Kadoya-san’s tone is mordant, lips pursing as he narrows his eyes at Wataru-kun. “But it must be if we landed here at the same time, eh, _King_?”

Kadoya-san half-turns, peering around at everyone as if he’s said something funny. His smug expression wavers when it doesn’t find the reaction he’s seeking, Wataru-kun blinking at him owlishly (and this time Akari-chan does manage to slap a hand against his forehead), rubbing one of his elbows.

“I’m sorry,” Wataru-kun says politely, peering at Takeru and then back again, “But _who_ are you?”

Kadoya-san freezes up, searching Wataru-kun’s features and then blanches. 

—

“Okay.”

The word is drawn out, Tsukasa rolling it around as he rubs his forehead, taking a long moment to press his index finger against his temple before he looks up and around the small round table of faces staring at him. There’s a range of expressions from apprehensive (that’s Tenkuji) to scarily intent (the flappy monk) to vaguely threatening (the bossy girl) and finally earnestly confused (which is King and that’s just fucking weird in Tsukasa’s book) that meet his gaze.

“So you,” he flicks a finger at Tenkuji, “found a mysterious box with a bat on it. There was a piece of glass in it and you somehow managed to cut yourself and bleed all over it despite technically being a ghost —“

Tenkuji raises a tentative hand, coughing a little. “Um, I’ve gotten pretty good at controlling my corporeal versus incorporeal states. So sometimes if I remember that I should bleed or something might hurt, it — happens?”

“Sort of a _I think therefore I am_,” the girl next to him chirrups, bouncing in her seat before she wilts when his sour gaze slides to her, “I - I suppose that’s not entirely scientific, is it?”

Her lower lip juts out, arms crossing over her chest.

Tsukasa slants his eyes and continues, “The glass sucked up the blood and a few hours later, King was sitting bare-assed naked on your examining table —“

“Language!” The monk snaps primly. “There is a woman present.”

“I will hurt you,” Said girl, raises a fist towards the monk who huffs.

Up goes the hand again, Tenkuji actually waiting until Tsukasa acknowledges him (and he waits it out a solid minute to see if the other Rider will just speak anyway but no, this one has _manners_.) “Uh, you keep calling Wataru-kun King...?

There’s a pause, one of those annoying little spaces where he’s clearly expected to fill in the conversation. Tsukasa nods at him. “Well done.”

He twists in his seat to jab a finger towards said King, who actually flinches in his chair (and if Tsukasa isn’t accustomed to those sinking feelings other people get in their gut, he thinks he might be feeling something like it now). King’s face is much younger than he remembers it, rounder and less sly, hair that’s too long catching against those ridiculous lips. It says something that he’s so quiet, not scolding Tsukasa for being over the top or demurely pulling the rest of the table in line.

“And you _say_ you don’t remember anything?”

It probably sounds like an accusation, King twisting his head around, voice almost squeaky with protest, “I don’t! I mean. Not much. My name is Wataru — _Wataru_. I like — violins?”

“Oh good. I’m so glad you didn’t forget that,” Tsukasa says dryly. 

He slouches back in his chair, hard enough that it rocks, aware that four sets of eyes are following him. 

“I think I get the gist,” he says but this time he’s not entirely sure that he does.

He’s not sure what to make of this at all. Not King, who in this moment is as intimidating as a wobbly chick, harmless and cute in a too friendly way. Stripped of all the quiet menace and sanctimonious well-meaning intention that define him. No unspoken understanding passes between them, the way Tsukasa knows that like it or not, King can see the game laid out as clearly as he can. 

He doesn’t like it. All that wide eyed hesitation, it’s just — it’s _wrong. _

His mouth twists, taking a gamble as he leans across the table, ignoring the way King shifts. “Where’s Kivat?”

It’s disappointing how much King’s poker face sucks in this moment and probably another indication of just how bad this situation actually is. “Uh, K-Kivat, um.”

“Yes. _Kivat_. That loudmouthed metal _rodent_ that hangs out with you, the one that was probably adorning the box. A golden bat with big red eyes,” Tsukasa makes a derisive noise. “If you’re here then your metal nanny is here. So. Where is he?”

It’s King’s eyes that give it away, King’s and the rest of the table suddenly shrinking before the air hits the back of his neck, Tsukasa throwing himself out of his chair as said metal bat dive bombs him. 

“Metal. _Rodent_,” There’s a growl, followed by a deep, throaty laugh, “Prepare yourself, human!”

The bat is a fast moving streak, Tsukasa darting forward and back, arms flailing before it occurs to him that his wrists and hands are visible. It causes the pandemonium around him, the monk darting out of the room as Tenkuji tries to thrust the girl behind him (despite the fact that they’re in no immediate danger, that’s him, thank you very much).

Tsukasa takes another step back before planting his feet, trying to peer around past his raised arm to track the little devil. Straightening as King pushes in front of him, arms out wide. 

“Kivat! Stop this right now!”

The bat’s too wound up though and from this angle, Tsukasa can see King’s throat tighten, _fearful_ before he pushes forward and throws himself hard into the air, hand swinging out —

— clamping hard around Kivat who roars in protest, the sound muffled as _King_ unceremoniously squishes him against his chest.

“Stop. Please stop. Kivat. _Please._”

He makes a pathetic figure, hunched and struggling to maintain his hold on the creature in his arms. There’s no sudden rising of glass heralding his Fangire nature. No outer push of power when he could so easily just have snatched and contained Kivat with a thought. Instead King is stricken, apologetic when he peers at Tenkuji.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just — Kivat came to me a few days ago. He doesn’t remember much either. We were trying to figure things out. I wasn’t trying to hide.”

“This just gets better and better,” Tsukasa mutters, pushing his hair out of his face, eyeing Tenkuji who starts to puff up.

It’s time to cut that off right now, striding forward to stand next to King — no, he’s not King like this — _Wataru. _

“You are still such a pain in my ass,” he huffs at the boy blinking up at him, lips doing some — moueing thing that almost makes him feel bad. Almost. 

“I don’t want to burst your bubble but your science experiment? Is the literal King of Hell and the bat’s his minion,” Tsukasa ignores the way Wataru’s jaw drops as he gestures at him. “This dewy ingenue thing we’re seeing here? Is so many levels of wrong, I don’t have time to explain it. It’s probably heralding the end times because we’re in deep if Kivat doesn’t remember his place, let alone King.”

“So, lady and gents, thank you very much for the hospitality but we are _leaving_ because I don’t know about you but I’d like to get to the bottom of this before the universe decides to upend itself because there’s no King of Hell to balance... Well, _me_ out.”

“Any questions?”

—End


End file.
